Roses with Thorns
by howdoievenenglish
Summary: Arthur Kirkland has an interesting new step-brother. He's fallen in love with his frustrating charm, and he can't figure him out. With two hot-headed young men, it's only a matter of time before things go horribly awry. Rated T for language.
1. Chapter 1

_This is set in the 2000's in high school. Don't ask me why everyone is in the same class, because I honestly don't know. I just thought it would make things more fun. I'm sorry this chapter sucks so badly. I'm also sorry, Georgia, that this didn't end with smut like you told me it should, ahahaha. The story will get better in the next couple of chapters, I promise!_

Arthur sighed, staring at the pissed off redhead diagonal from him. That boy was the reason for his headache that morning. He had a permanently bad attitude – at least, that was how Arthur viewed him. His messy auburn locks fell lazily into his aquamarine eyes whenever he tilted his head. He wore an earring and had a tendency to bite his lip. He was gorgeous. And, as much as Arthur hated to admit it, his heart skipped a beat whenever he saw that uneven smirk of his. Only one side of his lips would tilt up every time he grinned and for some reason, that only made him more attractive. Arthur couldn't help feeling attracted to him. Even if they did hate each other's guts.

The boy's name was Alistair Kirkland, and he was Arthur's new step brother. He was a couple years older, which the Scot took to mean much more intelligent so bugger off, blondie. Which always offended the hell out of Arthur. Alistair always seemed to be messing with him, and the hot-headed blonde always fell for the bait. However, the redhead also had a short fuse. This usually meant the two boys ended up in their rooms, fuming, or screaming at each other at the top of their lungs. A couple of times, it ended in a fistfight. Arthur still had the bruises to prove it. How their parents ever thought this living arrangement was a good idea was beyond Arthur.

Alistair turned his head, caught the other boy's gaze, and flipped him off. Arthur scowled and looked away, disgusted at his taste in men. But God, was Alistair attractive. Arthur shook the thoughts out of his head.

"Mr. Kirkland!"

" 'e's talkin' to you, kid," came the heavy Scottish accent.

Arthur once again turned his attention to the redhead. "Hm?"

Strands of the boy's hair shifted, untidy, into his bluish-green eyes as he nodded his head toward the man at the front of the room.

"I've been calling you for a while." The teacher's voice was calm, but his expression showed his impatience. He had wild, dark curls and brown eyes.

"Eh, sorry." Arthur lowered his head, embarrassed. He was still getting used to his new surname.

"Are you feeling all right? Maybe you shouldn't stay up all night. Spending time with your lady – or guy, I don't judge you know – is important, but you shouldn't let your health decline because of it. Unless it's really, really good sex."

Arthur blushed deeply and dropped his gaze to his desk. What kind of a teacher was this?

A boy just to Arthur's right stood up and called out, very loudly in fact, "It's probably the men!" Arthur sighed. That was Alfred, an annoying American that he had known his entire life. They were next door neighbors, along with Alfred's half-brother Matthew, who was born in Canada. Matthew was tolerable – even if a bit quiet and unsociable – but Alfred was pure hell. And he always wore sweatshirts, whether or not it was hot outside.

The American laughed at his own joke. His laughter always made Arthur cringe.

Another voice chimed in from Arthur's left. "Are you kidding? Just look at the way he's dressed. He's definitely a straight man." Ah, that was Francis. They used to be good friends – despite all of the fights they had over the years – until Francis began trying out bi-curious fantasies on him and things between them became awkward. Since then, they haven't been able to be in the same room together without the situation growing uneasy.

Arthur glared at him. "What's wrong with how I dress?"

"It's far too bland, darling. Just like your cooking."

"That's not fair, I think he looks nice," replied a voice from behind the two of them. Arthur turned around to see a small boy with deep brown eyes and a beret. He flashed the boy a smile, then turned to the boy next to him. He was much bigger and seemed to emit intimidation. Arthur quickly turned his attention to the other boy. "Thanks, old chap. I'm Arthur."

"Tino. Oh and, er, this is Berwald."

Arthur let his eyes wander over to the taller boy. He gave him a nod in recognition, which Berwald returned. The Englishman turned back around to find the entire class caught up in conversation. And it all started because Arthur had not been paying attention. How the hell did things work at this school? And why was the teacher enthralled in the conversation as well?

Then the Scotsman raised his voice over the steady hum of chatter that ran throughout the classroom. "Well. I don't know about the rest o' ya, but I think I've got the best outfit here."

Arthur blinked. They were still talking about clothes. Arthur didn't see what the big deal was, but apparently the rest of them did. Alistair grinned smugly. Arthur sighed, having to force himself not to make a snide comment. He really didn't feel like starting anything with him at that moment. He settled for rolling his eyes.

Alistair went over and put his hand on Arthur's desk, leaning in dangerously close. "You got a problem, Artie?"

Arthur blushed slightly, looking away and pretending not to give two shites. "You're an idiot. Go away." Alistair just smirked and laughed, a harsh monosyllabic sound. "Your face is turning red there, pretty boy."

Arthur fought the urge to flirt back. Wait, flirt? That wasn't what he meant, was it? It wasn't the word he was looking for, oh God no… And why was he blushing in the first place, because there was no way he actually liked the pompous git, even if the sparkle in his bluish eyes made his smirk seem more attractive…

Jesus Christ on rice, what was he thinking? This boy was his step-brother. And he could see the Englishman staring at him, lost in his eyes, face flushed. Arthur lowered his head, blushing deeper, his bright blonde hair falling over his eyes. He stared intently at the desk, wishing with all his might for Alistair to leave. But, of course, he didn't.

"Gettin' a crush on me, are you, Artie?"

Arthur lifted his head to scowl indignantly at the red-haired boy. He wanted to come up with a venomous remark, but all he could come up with was: "You're a moron, and my name is _Arthur._"

"Come now, Artie, don't be like that."

"Oh, I will be, _Alistair._"

That earned a glare from the Scotsman. "Don't call me that," he growled, aquamarine eyes narrowed in contempt.

Arthur smiled, now satisfied with himself; Alistair's usually calm and cool exterior seemed to dissolve.

"But that's your name."

"My _name _is_ Scott. _Artie."

Arthur ignored the last part of his sentence and raised an eyebrow. "You want me to check your birth cert?"

The redhead leaned in, his face only an inch away from Arthur's. The blonde held his breath, feeling himself turn red.

"Go ahead. I _dare _you."

The boy leaned out, much to Arthur's relief. The blonde swallowed a lump in his throat, intimidated by the tone in the Scotsman's voice. Oh, the way his eyes were both beautiful and terrifying at the same time made Arthur's pulse race. But then the Scot's frustrating smirk reappeared and Arthur remembered his indignation. He turned away, crossing his arms and wishing he hadn't gotten lost in his eyes. Oh dear God. Was he still blushing? Surely Alistair wouldn't notice.

"So ya' _have _got a crush on me." Crap. Of course he would see it.

Arthur's gaze was fixed on the wall just in front of the obnoxiously loud American kid. "Get the hell over yourself."

Alistair laughed, then put a hand up near his mouth as if he were telling a secret, and whispered mockingly, "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

"Bugger off, you arse."

The Scotsman simply laughed and returned to his seat.

"You know," came a voice just to Arthur's right. Of course. Alfred. Arthur turned his head and his eyebrow twitched. Alfred's smile was intoxicating as well. If only he weren't such an annoying wanker. "Your accent is funny," Alfred began, laughing in that annoying way of his, "always saying 'ahss' and 'bugger' and 'wanker' all the time and what is a wanker anyway? I don't know what it means but it sounds pretty awesome—"

Arthur sighed exasperatedly as the American continued making comments about his English accent and laughing to himself – and none too quietly at that. His high-pitched laughter was beginning to bother the hell out of Arthur. Just as the Englishman thought he was about to snap at the American, the teacher decided to speak up.

"So, I think now's a good time to start our lesson—"

"Grandpa, grandpa!" shouted someone from one of the desks at the front. One of his hairs stuck out farther than the others did, and it twisted into a curl at the end.

The teacher paused before answering. "Yes, Feli?"

"Can we have pasta for dinner tonight?"

A loud sigh came from a boy with the same type of impossible curl at the end of one of his hairs. They had to be related. Even if the second one was a lot darker than the first. "Feliciano, this really isn't the time for that."

The one with the reddish-brown hair spoke again, seemingly ignoring the boy next to him. "Oh, but Ludwig wants to come over so can we have wurst with it?"

The teacher seemed as if caught between annoyance and wanting to hug the stuffing out of him. "Sure. Now, class, let's begin."

. . . . .

On the walk home, Arthur realized how glad he was that the day was over. The entire day was chaos, what with so many interruptions and even an argument that led to a fistfight breaking out randomly in the middle of class. At one point a blonde man with long, braided hair entered the classroom and scolded their teacher for how noisy they all were.

When Arthur got home, he made sure the door was closed properly – it would sometimes open inexplicably if you didn't – and plopped onto the couch with a favorite book. Since Arthur went straight home and Alistair went to hang out with his friends for a while, and their parents often had to work late, the house was quiet and peaceful after school. No arguments, no wild classmates, and no Alistair for a couple of hours. Pure tranquility.

The redhead stumbled through the door just as Arthur had opened his book. He was home early. Granted, it had been about an hour since school let out and the two lived relatively close to the school grounds, but still. Alistair had never been home that early before. Arthur noticed he was holding a bottle that was concealed in a brown paper bag. Slowly, as if he were trying to keep his balance but not doing a very good job of it, the boy meandered over to the blonde. Alistair leant into him, his face only inches away from Arthur's. His breath smelled heavily of whiskey.

"Listen, Artie, I know ya' have got a thing f'r me—"

"Don't flatter yourself," the Brit spat defiantly.

Alistair unwittingly smacked the book out of Arthur's hands and the bottle slipped through his fingers, its contents soaking not only the blonde's book, but the rug under it. Well, that book was ruined. But the redhead didn't seem to notice; he was too busy glaring at Arthur's lips.

"I know y' got a thing for me. And I can't stop thinkin' about you and your…" He hiccupped before continuing. "…And your eyebrows."

_My eyebrows?_ Involuntarily, one of Arthur's hands flew up and touched his brow. Alistair took his hand and held it for a couple of seconds before placing it on the couch. "But I know how to make it all go away, Artie." He spoke softly, his words slurring just a bit.

"What are you—?" Arthur was cut off by Alistair's lips smashed against his. The blonde's intense green eyes widened slightly, then closed as he slowly gave in. His heart fluttered as he realized that was all he wanted since he had first laid eyes on Alistair a year earlier. He melted into the kiss and wrapped his arms around the redhead's neck as he felt Alistair's tongue, soft yet firm, against his. Arthur wasn't sure just how long they had been kissing for until he broke the kiss for air, breathless. He could see his reflection in Alistair's eyes. He leaned in again, his tingling lips lightly brushing the other's, when the door opened with a slam. The two pulled apart so fast Arthur hit his head against the couch while Alistair struggled to keep himself from falling backwards.

"Hey Scotty!" The American began walking over cheerfully.

Arthur cringed. Why now, of all times, did he choose to show up uninvited? Bloody moron. Alfred stopped in his tracks. "Am I interrupting somethin' here?"

"Ya' ain't interruptin' anythin' now get out o' here, ya sh—" The redhead stumbled and fell backwards, landing with a thud on the heavy rug. Well, that was embarrassing.

"Oh maple," a soft voice whimpered.

Arthur turned his head. "Oh, Matthew, when did you get here?" The Canadian looked almost startled, as if he expected Arthur to scold him for showing up in his house uninvited. "Sorry about this," he explained, "but Alfred dragged me here and I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't let go and you know how strong he is." Arthur nodded and smiled in order to calm him down. Matthew was sweet and shy and cute, but sometimes he was just a bit too nervous. How in heaven was he related to Alfred? "It's fine, Matt. Come in, have a seat."

"Don't mind if I do!" the American shouted, as usual, before placing himself comfortably on the couch next to Arthur. Cautiously, Matthew made his way over to them, eyeing the unconscious Scotsman the entire time. Arthur stood and stepped over Alistair to get to Matthew. "So do you want anything? We have—"

"Maple. Erm, are you sure he's okay?"

The Englishman looked down at the redhead briefly before turning back to Matthew and nodding like it was the most normal thing in the world. "Mm, yep. This isn't the first time that's happened."

Matthew laughed nervously. "Really?"

"Mhm."

Alfred cleared his throat. "You know, I heard if he lies on his back like that an' throws up, he could choke and die."

Unsure what to make of the comment, Arthur and Matthew simply stared at him, letting the comment hang in the air. When he got sick of the uncomfortable silence, Arthur briefly glanced at his step-brother before roughly kicking him onto his side. "There. Now he's fine."

. . . . .

Long after the three had all gotten settled, a boy with strawberry blonde hair and mint green eyes poked his head through the door, which Arthur realized had not been closed since Alfred busted it open. "Er, excuse me?" The trio of blondes turned their heads. "Sorry to bother you all. I'm Dylan. I, uh, came to check up on Scott?"

Arthur gave a fleeting look over at the drunken redhead before nonchalantly kicking him in the foot. "He's out cold."

Dylan sighed lightly. "Did he do anything … Er, strange?" Arthur immediately turned red, remembering the kiss from earlier. The memory, still fresh in his mind, sent a fluttering sensation through his stomach. "Erm. Sort of."

Dylan smiled knowingly and gave a small laugh that sounded a bit like a sigh. "You must be Arthur, then. I'll just take him upstairs, if you don't mind."

Arthur smirked. If it weren't for Dylan, Alistair might have slept on the floor all night. And that wouldn't be pretty. The Scotsman was never pleasant when he had a nasty hangover. "That'll save me the trip. Thanks. Watch out, though, he's heavy." Dylan laughed softly as he walked over to the unconscious body on the floor. "Trust me, I know. He's sat on me more than once."

Arthur nodded. "Yeah, same. Hey, you should stay a bit. I think we might have some tea left in the kitchen."

Dylan smiled, nodding, before picking up Alistair and heaving him up over his shoulder with a grunt.

"Do you have any ice cream?" Alfred's face lit up as he asked the question. "Me and Mattie here love it."

Arthur cut a glance at the American. "Ice cream is fattening."

"But just look at Mattie. He's a stick!"

"That's because he exercises, you git."

"Aww, come on!"

Arthur sighed. "Check the freezer."

As Alfred ran excitedly to the kitchen, the Englishman smirked and rolled his eyes. "How do you live with that?" he joked to Matthew, who smiled politely.

"You get used to him, I guess."

Arthur didn't know whether to shudder or laugh at Matthew's response.

. . . . .

"So, how do you know Alistair?" Arthur asked, sipping the tea he had made earlier. Matthew was politely eating ice cream and contributing every once in a while to the conversation, careful not to make a mess. Alfred, on the other hand, was practically shoving the spoon down his throat; he had proclaimed he could down the entire carton in under ten minutes and was trying like holy hell to prove it.

Dylan inspected the crumpet Arthur had given him before taking an experimental bite and putting it back down on the small plate. "Well, um, we're brothers, actually. Our father is Scottish, and our mother's half-Welsh, half-Irish. I was born in Wales, and Scott was born in Scotland. When our parents split, he went with Dad and I went with Mum."

"So…" Arthur replied, pointing to the stairs with his eyes. "How did that happen?"

Dylan smiled, seeming to be both amused and exhausted. He courteously took a sip of his tea. "Well. He decided to visit, since we don't live too far from each other. We got into a bit of a disagreement over whiskey and before I knew it, he had run off and bought himself a bottle. When I said I didn't want any, he told me he'd finish the entire thing himself and ran off." He laughed softly before continuing. "Scott always did have such a temper."

Dylan set his cup of tea down on the tea plate on the table before him. "How are you getting along with him?"

Arthur winced. "Er. Um. All right, I suppose." He did not want to talk about this type of thing in front of Dylan.

"All right?" Alfred scoffed. "You know," he said to Dylan in a hushed tone, even though he was actually still speaking rather loudly. "One time they both came in with black eyes and Arthur here even had a split lip. They beat the crap out of each other constantly." The American burst into a laughing fit.

Arthur rolled his eyes. Dylan simply laughed.

"He and I used to be like that. We kind of grew apart with the divorce, though, so now we don't try and kill each other like we used to." The Welsh boy ended his sentence with a small laugh.

Arthur felt as though time had slowed considerably. Could he be saying…? The Englishman knew he was staring, incredulous, at the other boy but hadn't dared to look away. He gawked at Dylan as if he held the answer to the meaning of life. He was Alistair's brother, and bruises and lacerations were not a regular thing for this boy. Was that even possible? Arthur nearly bowed down and worshiped him. He settled for grabbing Dylan's arm urgently. "How the hell did you manage something like that?"

The boy's eyes softened guiltily as his strawberry blonde bangs fell into his face. "Arthur—"

"Dylan. Please."

The boy sighed, gently pried Arthur's hand off of his arm and leant back, defeated. He had a small smile on his face. "You have to understand something about Scott."

Dylan's mint eyes shot over to the staircase before settling once more on Arthur. "He tries to, well, cover up his emotions." Dylan's smile widened slightly. "He's too stubborn for his own good."

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows as he felt a knot twist in his stomach. He didn't exactly like where this conversation was going. He opened his mouth to say something but Alfred beat him to it. "So what's that got to do with blondie over here?"

Arthur cut a sideways glance at Alfred. "You're blonde too, you twit."

Dylan laughed. "You two sound like an old married couple!" he said cheerfully. Arthur hadn't caught the slight blush that had made its way across Alfred's skin. The Englishman nearly cringed at the thought of him and Alfred being married. Dylan sobered and leant forward a bit. "To answer your question," he said to no one in particular, keeping his gaze on the carpeted floor. "Scott doesn't seem likely to stop torturing Arthur any time soon."

And with that, Arthur felt his heart drop. Wasn't he the lucky bastard?

"Why not?" Matthew chimed in, his voice soft-spoken as always.

Alfred and Arthur's heads both whipped around to where the Canadian was still sitting. Arthur had nearly forgotten he was there, and felt immediately guilty for it.

Dylan took a moment to collect his thoughts then spoke slowly, carefully. "Well. We all know that when a young boy likes someone, he sort of picks on them. Right?"

Alfred nodded his head fervently, Matthew listened quietly, and Arthur fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. He wasn't sure he liked where the conversation was leading this time, either. But he couldn't deny the tingling hope spreading throughout his chest.

"Scott hasn't really grown out of that. He … he doesn't know how to communicate, and gets frustrated when he can't get his point across."

Arthur froze, his heart pounding in his chest, not ready to believe that there was any hope of the redhead having any interest in him. Sure, he practically made out with him, but that was because he was drunk … Right? He must have been misunderstanding the Welsh boy. That must have been it. But then why was Dylan smiling at him like that, as if he knew something Arthur didn't?

Feeling flustered and not knowing what else to do, Arthur dropped his head, feeling as if his face were going to burn up.

Dylan simply laughed softly and smiled reassuringly at Arthur. "But he really isn't all bad. You just have to be patient, yeah? He'll come around in his own time." His words only made Arthur blush harder. This caused Alfred to rush over, chattering nonsensically.

"Hey, hey, Arthur, are you all right? You're not sick, are you?" He put his hand on the Brit's forehead to check for a fever. Arthur smacked his hand away curtly and turned away, hoping Alfred was too ignorant to figure out why he was turning red. "Yeah, er, I've got a cold."

Alfred stared at him with a stupidly blank expression on his face. Thank God Alfred was too oblivious to notice that the mention of Alistair was the reason he was blushing. "You're weird. Kind of like Matt and his French love songs. I think he only listens to them because he likes that girly dude in our math class."

The Canadian turned different shades of red, stuttering out an explanation as best he could. "I already told you, French is a beautiful language!"

"That's what you said about Spanish when you had a crush on that guy from Cuba. And then you wouldn't stop listening to Enrique Iglesias for two months even though he comes from, like, Mexico or something."

"Spain, actually. And anyway, I can now speak fluent Spanish, so it wasn't all bad, was it?"

Alfred shrugged, resigned, leaning back in his chair.

Dylan glanced down at his watch and made a face when he read the time. "Oh, it seems I've stayed far too long." He stood up and held out his hand to Arthur. "It was great meeting you and your neighbors. We should do it again sometime."

Arthur stood and nodded, then took Dylan's hand in his and shook it firmly. "Same to you. Feel free to drop in any time."

Dylan nodded and flashed a smile at the Englishman. "I will. Thanks for your hospitality."

Arthur glanced pointedly at the stairwell. "Thanks for lugging that brute upstairs."

Dylan laughed, his eyes lighting up as he did so. His eyes were similar to Alistair's, but held a certain gentleness that the redhead's did not.

"No problem." He turned to Matthew and Alfred and gave them a friendly wave. "See you two soon as well, I hope."

"You bet, dude." The American put his arm around Matthew's shoulders and roughly pulled him closer. Matthew stumbled and nearly tripped over his own feet. Alfred always was monstrously strong. "Maple – Bye, Dylan."

The boy turned and walked to the door, then paused. "Bye, everyone," he stated cheerfully. "Oh, and Arthur?" He rotated on his heel and looked at the Englishman. Arthur genuinely believed that Dylan's eyes could pierce straight through him at any given moment.

"Hm?" He took an involuntary step forward in anticipation of what Dylan was about to say. The boy's tone sounded like he was trying to warn Arthur.

"Be careful. If … if you play with fire too much, there's a high chance you could get burned. Whether, um. Whether the fire means to burn you or not. Just keep that in mind." And with that, he left.

Arthur froze in place, suddenly immobilized by Dylan's words. His blood rushed in his ears.

"Huh? Dude, that doesn't make any sense." The American whined before rushing off into the kitchen once more, spouting something about needing a soda all of a sudden.

But Arthur knew, suddenly and unmistakably and beyond a shadow of a doubt that Dylan was talking about Alistair.


	2. Chapter 2

Rain pattered loudly as it hit the window pane. Arthur stared out the window, examining a drop of rain that hit the glass and ran down in a zigzag pattern, only to merge with another raindrop. The entire day had been gray and overcast, mirroring Arthur's overall mood. Lately, he had been feeling quite nihilistic, due to the fact that he had lost his job in a fit of sleep-deprived anxiety. Instead of searching feverishly for a new one like any other day, Arthur decided to sit back and wallow in self-pity. It was pathetic, he knew, but he needed a day where he could become little more than a husk of a man. It would allow him to reboot and start another week of tireless job-searching. This was a strange process, one not even he could fully comprehend. His personality was one that many would have a hard time understanding. At least, he hoped, this would provide him with a peaceful time, if not a very enjoyable one. Hopefully, if Arthur was in any way lucky, he would be able to forget Alistair for just one day.

He knew the thought was futile – even though it was nice to think about— Alistair had been in the back of the Englishman's mind since Arthur was in 8th grade. Sighing, the man allowed his mind to wander back over all of the events that happened when he was in high school, starting with freshman year. He had fought incessantly with his step brother, watched Alfred grow up before his very eyes, gotten to know Matthew and a foreign exchange student named Kiku very well over his sophomore and junior years, had deep and meaningful conversations with Dylan, experienced joy, depression, heartache, friendship, and had had stupid, dramatic fights over practically nothing with his friends, only to reconcile with them the next day. High school was wonderful, magical, horrible, and stressful all at the same time. And it seemed to have gone by in the blink of an eye. Arthur was glad it was over. He was still only a young adult, but the Englishman considered himself older and wiser.

Try as he might, Arthur could not suppress a particularly painful memory from rising to the front of his mind. It was Alistair's last year of high school. His last week, to be exact. Which meant a very belated high school prom. Alistair had asked – or told, rather— Arthur to go with him so abruptly and rudely the blonde couldn't help but take it as a joke. So he laughed.

_Alistair placed his hands on the small, round kitchen table Arthur was sitting at. "What're you laughin' at, Artie?"_

"_It's been a year and you still call me that?"_

"_Damn straight."_

"_Well, I'm not going. At least, not with you."_

"_So, who are you goin' with, if it's not gonna be me? Not that stupid cowlick, I hope."_

"_What, you mean Alfred?"_

"_Who else? Or are you goin' with that antisocial kid. His… cousin or something."_

_Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Brother. Well, half-brother. And he's sneaking in with Dylan to make Francis jealous." The Englishman made a face before continuing. "I'll never see what he sees in that frog."_

_Alistair smirked, a devious plan forming in his mind. He then cleared his face of all emotion and spoke nonchalantly. "And I'll never know what you see in that obnoxious cowlick."_

"_Stop calling him that," Arthur spat automatically before Alistair's words finally sunk in. He blushed, disgruntled. "And I don't have any feelings for him, you git! Anyway, he's not a senior." Arthur couldn't help feeling as though he would play the submissive role in either relationship. _Wait, why am I the 'girl'? _he thought sullenly to himself._

_Alistair continued. "But I am. And when you get to go to a senior prom, that guy's not going to dance with you."_

_Arthur could feel himself flush lightly at the thought of the Scotsman asking him to dance. _Again, why am I the 'girl' in the relationship? _The blonde mentally chided himself for even thinking about something like that, refusing to acknowledge the childish tingle of hope in his chest. The feeling turned to discomfort and disdain as he realized Alistair was smirking at him, an evil glint in those aquamarine eyes._

_Arthur scowled at him. "You have the smile of the devil."_

"_Well then, you're in deep shit, aren't you?"_

_The blonde rolled his eyes and his gaze fixed on the wall before him, words spilling from his mouth before he could think to stop them. "You have no idea."_

_This only made the redhead's grin widen maniacally. "Well, at least I'd dance with you, unlike a certain American." He winked at Arthur. "I swear it."_

_Arthur scoffed. "That's like saying Heracles won't fall asleep in first period." The Grecian was an excellent student, but couldn't seem to keep his head up in their first-period class. Thankfully, he had Kiku and his distant relative, a flirtatious Spaniard, to fill in all of the details he had missed. Heracles also refused to cut the curls that so resembled their teacher's. _

_Alistair straightened and crossed his arms, a challenging smirk materializing on his face. "You wanna bet?"_

"_How much?"_

_Alistair raised an eyebrow. "Fifty bucks."_

"_Screw off."_

"_Maybe I'll ask Elizaveta."_

_Emerald green eyes shot over to the Scotsman as Arthur attempted to gauge his level of seriousness. Alistair met his gaze evenly with cool, indifferent eyes. Arthur gave up, sensing nothing, and inspected his nails as if they were suddenly more interesting than the fiery redhead diagonal from him. _

"_Should I pretend to care?" To his relief, Arthur's voice masked his utter disappointment._

_Alistair responded with a spiteful laugh. "I know you do. Go and pick a nice outfit out."_

_The taunting tone in the Scotsman's voice caused the blonde to grit his teeth. He forced himself to remain calm. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled through his nose. When he relaxed and opened his eyes, Arthur looked apathetically at his step-brother and spat out, "I wouldn't dance with you if my life depended on it."_

"_Once you see me in my sexy outfit, you'll change your mind."_

"_Bite me."_

"_I'll save that for later." The Scotsman looked him up and down, smirking. Arthur could feel a blush appear on his skin._

"_You're disgusting," he hissed. "Why do you want me to go so badly anyway?"_

"_Just do it." And, with those words, Alistair winked, turned on his heel, and walked away._

…_.._

_Arthur wasn't quite sure why he obeyed Alistair. He had even bough an entirely new outfit for the occasion. When they arrived, however, Alistair was as detached as always, if not more so. Upon entering the room, Arthur noticed the Scotsman scanning the room for his friends. They were just like he was: obnoxious, audacious, and head-over-heels for themselves. _

_Arthur told himself he shouldn't be surprised by the lack of warmth coming from the redhead, but could not stop Alistair from bruising his ego. When the other began to wander off, Arthur wondered briefly if he should split up and find his own friends before hesitantly following Alistair. Arthur didn't exactly like the thought of pushing his way through a crowd. He hadn't even wanted to attend a dance in the first place. In fact, he had planned to avoid them his entire high school career._

"_Hey, Scotty! How the hell are ya?"_

_Arthur stopped dead in his tracks when he heard the unmistakable voice of Gilbert, an albino that the blonde just could not stand. And he thought Alfred's shouting voice was bad. Jesus._

"_Pretty shite. What about you?"_

"_What's shite?" inquired a man with wild blonde hair that seemed to stick out every which way. He was clinging to a boy much smaller than he, and playing with the cross the other had in his hair. _

"_It's a word I picked up from my brother. He grew up in Dublin, so he has this weird accent—"_

"_Hey hey, Scotty, who's that?" Gilbert smiled – the grin itself was probably supposed to be non-threatening, but when combined with those red eyes, it made him look like a beast hunting its prey._

_The blonde felt his muscles tense as the others turned their full attention to him. Alistair wrapped his arm around Arthur's waist, effectively blocking him from retreat. The Englishman's stomach began twisting into knots as his mind went blank. Alistair was so close… Arthur wished he could just lean into the Scotsman and melt into him._

"_Well, I couldn't leave Artie boy at home alone all night, could I?"_

_Arthur turned his head to glare at him but felt his gaze soften when he saw a kindness that he had never before witnessed in those intense blue eyes. His smile was sincere instead of spiteful or teasing, which forced Arthur to look away. He felt like a damned schoolgirl, and desperately hoped his shaggy layered hair could keep the others from seeing his reddening face. Thankfully, no one seemed to be taking notice of him any longer._

_Suddenly, the blonde sensed a dark presence near him. He turned to see what it was and nearly shrieked, staring up at the ridiculously large man standing right beside him. The guy must have been six foot five, at least. He was almost taller than Berwald Oxenstierna, who Arthur only spoke to in passing thanks to his boyfriend Tino. The man had piercing violet eyes and the lightest blonde hair Arthur had ever seen, save for Gilbert's. He would be adorable, if only he were small._

_The man opened his mouth as if to say something, but another boy with long, brown hair rushed over to interrupt. "Ivan, why did you put vodka in the punch bowl?"_

_Ivan smiled innocently, which sent a shudder down Arthur's spine for unknown reasons. "To make things more fun," the Russian stated simply, as if nothing in the world were more obvious._

"_Hey! Don't start that shit again!" Arthur's head whipped around to see Gilbert yelling and a level-headed Norwegian standing opposite him._

"_But you're not—"_

"_I come from East Germany! That means I'm Prussian."_

_The smaller boy crossed his arms over his chest, shifting his weight onto his other leg. "That doesn't mean shit. You're German, and Ludwig is German."_

"_Ludwig was born in West Germany, so obviously, he doesn't count."_

"_Prussia doesn't even exist anymore."_

"_You're just jealous because your ancestors aren't Prussian! So you're not as awesome and amazing as I am."_

_The Norwegian's eyes narrowed. He had had enough of Gilbert for one evening. "Mathias," he commanded. "We're leaving."_

_The Dane whined. "Aw, Nikolai! We just got here—augh!"_

_The taller one was cut off when Nikolai reached over and harshly tugged on the poor man's tie, practically choking him. The Norwegian then led Mathias away, and they both disappeared to who-knows-where._

_Arthur poked Alistair lightly in the arm to get his attention. "Is he going to be okay?"_

_But the redhead was caught up in a different conversation. He wasn't even pretending to pay attention to his date. How the hell dare he? Arthur told himself to remain patient, Alistair would come around in his own time, somebody would notice the socially awkward blonde soon enough. But they never did. And when Arthur got fed up with waiting for Alistair's attention (repeated taps on his arm weren't enough to get him to turn to Arthur), no one did so much as bat an eyelash when he walked away aimlessly into the crowd._

_Then a sudden realization struck him: he was in a room packed with strangers, he had just wandered off alone, and Alistair didn't even care. Arthur's heart dropped into his stomach. Arthur imagined he could feel the digestive acids eat away at the vital organ. It was a nice thought. _

_Arthur found a relatively quiet table and sat down. He immediately noticed Dylan. It took him a couple of seconds to see Matthew sitting next to him. They were whispering frantically, and the Canadian looked worried. It appeared Dylan was trying to bring him confidence and encourage him to do something. What a sweet boy. How in hell was he even remotely related to Alistair?_

"_Go on, Matt, he's looking straight at you!"_

"_He is? Oh dear God…."_

"_Relax! You look like a million bucks. Go on."_

_Matthew stood, seemingly trying to work up the nerve to do something. "Okay."_

_Dylan sent him a bright, convincing smile. "Knock him dead, Mattie."_

_The Canadian mirrored a grin at the Welsh boy. "Thanks. Tonight, I'll make Francis mine."_

_Arthur watched as Matthew made his way across the dancefloor – rather skillfully in fact, twisting and turning at just the right times and angles to avoid bumping into anyone – to meet up with Francis, who was a bit overdressed as always. What did poor Matthew see in him? Opposites attract, the blonde guessed._

"_How ya?" came the soft voice of a familiar strawberry-blonde adolescent. Arthur looked up at the cheerful face of the Welsh boy, wondering why he couldn't have a helpless crush on him instead. _

"_You look like crap, Art."_

"_Thanks. I feel like it."_

"_I didn't mean like that. Is it Scott again?"_

_Arthur almost winced at the mention of Alistair, but remained silent, nodding. Mint green eyes softened sympathetically. "You want me to go and talk to the idiot?"_

_That made Arthur smile just a bit. "No. I'll just sit here and… wallow in self-pity." He ended with a bitter laugh._

_Dylan turned his head and looked into the crowd, smiling sadly. Arthur followed his gaze to Francis and Matthew, who were conversing. They seemed to be having a good time. Francis had just made Matthew laugh. "I know exactly how you feel, Arthur." He paused for a moment before turning back to the Englishman. "You sound like you need some punch."_

"_That Braginski kid put vodka in the punch."_

_Dylan smirked. "That's exactly why you need some. Here, let me go get some for you." The Welsh boy stood and disappeared into the crowd. Minutes later, a blur of pastel colors whizzed by, turned, and stopped at the table Arthur was sitting at. "Hi, Arthur!"_

_It was Tino. His violet eyes were bright and wide, his face flushed. Well, he was obviously hammered. A shadow appeared above the Englishman, which told Arthur that Berwald had arrived as well. He greeted the two of them warmly, despite the aches growing in his head and chest. Tino bounced over and wrapped his arms around the Englishman's neck._

"_Are you having fun?" he said, letting go to make his way over to Berwald's side. Arthur swallowed an urge to respond with a sarcastic, biting reply._

"_Oh, yes. Just waiting for Dylan to come back."_

_Tino's violet eyes lit up. "Oh, that's great! Oh hey, did you try any of that punch? At first it was terrible but after a while it was kind of nice and can we go and dance, Berwald, and – wait, why is Gilbert doing a striptease in the middle of everyone dancing?"_

_Arthur turned to look at the center of the dancefloor and could not stop himself from snorting in laughter. There was a very drunk Gilbert, gyrating and trying to take his shirt off. It took a lot of effort for him to be able to wrestle out of it and throw the article of clothing to the floor. Soon, however, Antonio pushed him away, trying not to laugh. The white-haired man only shouted unintelligibly at him in German, his words too slurred to be understood by anyone._

_Dylan returned relatively soon afterwards, apologizing profusely for taking so long. He explained that it was very crowded and he wasn't a born dancer like Matthew, so he had trouble making his way through the throng of people. Arthur waved a hand dismissively at him, glad to have something, anything to distract him from his dismay. He took a sip of the vodka-tainted drink and winced. It tasted utterly awful and burned as it went down, so Arthur made a mental note to swallow as much of it as he could at one time._

_If Dylan had sensed his inner turmoil (and Arthur was convinced he did – Dylan was incredibly intuitive) he didn't say anything about it. They spoke of recent happenings, what troubles they had heard from their friends, upcoming tests that they knew they'd forget to study for. Dylan then stood abruptly, eyes fixed once again on a commotion on the dancefloor. "Oh God, Gil's getting violent again."_

_Once more, Arthur followed Dylan's gaze to see the Prussian viciously struggling against Antonio. He managed to free himself before trying to unbutton his pants. The Spaniard fought unsuccessfully to restrain him. Dylan glanced back at Arthur, concern showing in his soft green eyes. "Will you be okay if I leave?"_

_Arthur looked at him and summoned the bravest smile he could muster, which must not have been very much. Dylan furrowed an eyebrow, unconvinced. The Englishman stared back coolly, his gaze even. He really did not want to talk about his feelings. He was too busy repressing them. Fortunately, the Welshman did not push further. He simply shrugged and rushed over to assist Antonio. In the end, the two could not contain the hotheaded Prussian, and it took the strength of the albino's younger brother Ludwig to be able to drag him away. The brothers cursed at each other roughly in their native tongue. Ironically, the younger one was bigger and more chiseled than the older. Arthur smirked at the thought._

_The blonde was left with his thoughts, feeling forlorn and dejected. He sat quietly, staring at the table. Why couldn't he be happy that night? He had gotten out of the stuffy house and seen some friends, so there was no reason to be miserable. Right? Why couldn't he be more relaxed, more energetic, like… Like Tino. Why couldn't he giggle and bounce around and socialize like the Finn could? _

_Then it hit him: because he wasn't drunk. Tino wasn't normally that energetic and unbridled, was he? He sure as hell wasn't all that at ease around his intimidating boyfriend, in spite of the fact that they had been dating for quite some time. _

_Tino was comfortable. All because of the vodka-punch. The Englishman made his way over to where the refreshments were held._

_Arthur stood at the table, grabbed his own glass of the concoction, and threw it back, wincing as it burned his esophagus. The mixture tasted like some sickeningly sweet sugar water with rubbing alcohol added for extra measure. It was stomach-churning. The Englishman wondered if it might cause him to void the contents of his stomach all over the floor. Lovely thoughts._

_Beginning to feel its effects, the blonde questioned whether this would really cause him to forget the painful hole in his heart. He scowled at his empty cup before filling it once more and before taking a swig. And then the vodka hit him like a ton of bricks. The room began to spin in front of his eyes, and he panicked. He had never been drunk before and hated not being able to make the room stay still. He needed a distraction, so he searched the figures that were swimming before his eyes… and his gaze stopped right in the middle of the dancefloor, drawn to the messy locks of auburn hair. The man who owned them swayed gracefully, stepping in time with the rhythm of the song that blasted from the speakers above. Arthur's heart sank into his stomach for the second time that night as he realized something. Alistair was dancing with Elizaveta. He was dancing with her. And not with Arthur. Hell, he didn't even seem to be looking for him. The lying, two-timing bastard. He promised. He promised to dance with Arthur, and he broke his oath. Arthur hated him. He hated Alistair's guts, and that was why he felt as if there was a knife in his chest. That was why he was glaring at the two dancing in such a beautiful fashion. That was why he gulped down another harsh swig of the punch. Because he hated Alistair, and not because he loved him. He could never love someone whose head was that far up his own arse. And yet, no matter how many times Arthur told himself these things, he couldn't get himself to believe any of them. Despite all of the logic that told him it was completely and totally idiotic to have any feelings for Alistair whatsoever, Arthur couldn't dispel the feelings he had for the frustrating redhead. Although he would never admit it aloud, he wanted to be the one Alistair was dancing with._

The rest of the night was a blur. Arthur was not aware of all of the details, but he knew he had approached Alistair, very disgruntled, making everyone stop and stare as the blonde yelled and cried and fell to his knees, cursed Alistair's name, and screw if anyone was looking. He hadn't cared; he had been too drunk. Arthur had given up his entire night and his savings, and what did he get out of it? A stupid, embarrassing, drunken mistake that would forever leave a vague imprint on his memory. Arthur hadn't seen much of Alistair at all after that dreadful night.

The night of the prom had, more or less, ended in disaster. Francis and Matthew were not talking to each other the next day, Gilbert had given Antonio a black eye and nearly snapped Ludwig's wrist in a fit of violent rage, no one was quite sure where Tino and Berwald had disappeared to (and the couple never told anyone, blushing like mad whenever anyone asked), and the majority of people had gone home thoroughly smashed. Ivan seemed to be the only one happy at the end of the night.

Arthur scowled at this memory, drinking deeply from his cup of tea. Was that a knock at the door? The sound was so faint. Arthur walked across the room and opened the door to his apartment. To his pleasant surprise, Kiku was standing beside Dylan, who was noticeably taller than him. The Welshman smiled warmly with a greeting of: "How ya. Can we come in?"

Arthur nodded, stepping away from the doorway. "Yes, of course. Forgive the mess; I didn't know anyone was coming over today."

Dylan frowned. "On your birthday? I mean, we should've called or something, yeah, but still."

It was his birthday? Arthur hadn't even noticed. His mood had been absolute shite lately. He hadn't even been paying attention to dates. How old was he now? Nineteen, maybe? Yeah, probably. That meant Alistair was how old? No, god damn it, he didn't care.

"Guess I forgot, huh?" He flashed a smile at the two in order to calm any worry they might have had. Arthur usually remembered everyone's birthday, like some kind of human calendar. He shouldn't have forgotten his own.

Dylan smiled again. "Well, I brought you your favorite tea, as always. Kiku and his boyfriend helped me find it, since I get lost so easily in this town of yours."

"Oh, thank you. You can just put it anywhere. Speaking of Heracles, where is he? It's always nice when he comes over."

The blonde directed the question at Kiku, who blushed and grinned sheepishly. "He needs his sleep. But he sends his regards."

Just then the door burst open and hit the wall with a loud slam. Arthur didn't even have to turn his head to see who it was: Alfred must have had something 'important' to say.

"Arthur!" came a shout that confirmed the Englishman's suspicions. "Happy birthday!"

The man with sandy blonde hair stood, hands in pockets, for a moment before walking just a bit closer to Alfred. He wasn't sure he had the patience to deal with the American's inane ramblings. Alfred crossed his arms and smiled widely. "I'm taking you to a party tonight!"

Arthur furrowed an eyebrow. "Like hell you are. What if I don't want to go?"

Alfred began rushing over to him and for a moment Arthur was afraid the boisterous American would hug him into submission, like he usually did when the Englishman tried to refuse his offers. Thankfully, however, it seemed he would be spared, as Alfred stopped short in front of him. "Aww, come on, it's your birthday! I spent all day yesterday looking for the perfect present and I ran into Francis and got invited to the most awesome party of the year!"

"Hold on." Arthur's eyes narrowed. "You think I want to go to a party thrown by _Francis_? That frog?"

Alfred pouted. "But you didn't go last time, and it was really nice and since it was the fourth of July there were really pretty fireworks—"

"I don't like big parties. Or crowds. And I don't particularly care about fireworks, either."

"What's there not to like? And anyway, you can just stick with me the entire time!"

Obviously, the American was not going to take 'no' for an answer. Arthur glanced over at Dylan and Kiku, feeling helpless. They were grinning as if they knew something Arthur didn't. The Englishman would have grimaced at them if they weren't so damn nice. He was sure from the looks in their eyes that they wouldn't say a thing and were sworn to secrecy. The Englishman sighed, resigned, and turned back to Alfred. He knew he wouldn't win an argument with the American any time soon. Not in the mood to argue any more, Arthur sighed deeply. "Fine."

…..

Arthur couldn't believe he was doing this. He was going to let Alfred drag him to a part that he had no interest in going to. He cursed himself a thousand times over when he entered the large building the party was being held at. It was much too extravagant and over-the-top for his taste. But it was too late to turn back at that moment in time. Arthur wouldn't hear the end of it if he stood Alfred up.

The room was a spacious, elegant room. The high ceilings held extravagant chandeliers that Arthur guessed cost more than his monthly rent. It was largely unfurnished – more than likely, furniture was taken out of the room for the party – save for a large table with hors d'oeuvres arranged neatly on trays and small glasses full of red wine. Francis had thought of everything, hadn't he?

The blonde scanned the room, searching for Alfred. He didn't do well in crowds and frankly, he began to panic when left alone in a room filled with strangers. He wasn't sure when he had stopped looking for Alfred in favor of searching for the nearest exit. He found one and was about to make a beeline for it when he heard a voice greeting him.

"Hello! You look like you need a drink."

Arthur turned his head and smiled, happy to see a somewhat friendly face. "Antonio! How are you?"

The two grinned at each other and clapped the other on the back. "I haven't seen you since high school! How have you been, you magnificent Spanish bastard?"

Antonio laughed, and Arthur noticed another man standing behind the Spaniard and a bit to the side, pouting and looking generally displeased with the entire situation in general. Arthur nodded to him in recognition, but the man glowered at him. Antonio seemed to follow the Englishman's gaze and turned around to beam at the man behind him. "Lovino! Come and say hi to Mr. Kirkland!"

The blonde spoke before he could think, uttering the overused joke, "My dad's called Mr. Kirkland, call me Arthur." He ended the sentence with a small laugh, which caused the other two to stare at him blankly in response. The Englishman laughed nervously in an attempt to break the uneasy silence.

Antonio turned his head slightly to the side, his eyes darting from Lovino to Arthur. They spoke in a different language. From the sound of it, it was either Spanish or Italian – Arthur could never tell much of a difference between the two languages. Antonio gave a sheepish chuckle while the Italian appeared to be as pouty as ever. Arthur wasn't quite sure how they could stand each other for very long. They seemed to be complete opposites.

Soon, Arthur and Antonio began conversing, reminiscing about the past, sharing laughs and sorrows, embarrassing moments, once-in-a-lifetime moments, and everything in between. Lovino didn't contribute much, but when he did, his words were either facetiously insulting (most of these comments were aimed at the Spaniard), or surprisingly wise, despite all of the curse words that leaked out of his mouth unapologetically.

"You know," Antonio grinned, looking thoughtful. "I think I remember in high school you hated me."

Arthur laughed softly. "I did?"

"Yes! You called me an 'arrogant bastard who thinks he can put the moves on anyone he damn well pleases.' "

"Oh God. Did I really say that?" Arthur hid his face in his hand, embarrassed.

The Spaniard was about to say something, but a loud buzz cut him off. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile, flipping it open. Antonio's eyes softened and he turned to Lovino, smiling sadly.

Lovino must have recognized the look in Antonio's brilliant green eyes. "No. No you are not fucking leaving again. Tell your friend he can solve his relation-_shit_ problems on his own. You're mine right now."

"Francis is my best friend." Antonio smiled, kissing Lovino on the cheek. "I'll make it up to you tonight." He then winked at the Italian, waved a goodbye to Arthur, and was gone before Lovino had time to utter another curse word. Suddenly, the Englishman felt awkward again. He glanced over at the other man, who was frowning at the exit as if that would bring Antonio back.

"Well. Guess we both need a drink, don't we?"

…..

Arthur and Lovino hit it off, which appeared to surprise both of them. The two shared opinions on many things, from mundane things to criticisms they had for the idiots in their lives. These idiots were bothersome, but they both knew they could not do without them. Arthur quickly forgot about Alfred, and he decided he was glad to be there, drinking lightly and conversing with an entertaining, crabby as all hell, but still cute, Italian. That is, he was glad to be there, until an unmistakable voice from behind sounded.

"Havin' fun without me, Artie?"

Well, damn. Now he really did need a drink.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur wasn't going to turn around. He _refused_ to turn around. If he ignored the voice, maybe it would go away. He would rather believe he was crazy than turn and see the man he was both dreading and yearning to see again. His heart was pounding hard in his chest; surely the man couldn't see him shaking. Right?

"Aw come on, Artie, you're not ignoring me, are you?"

Slowly, the blonde worked up the courage to turn around and look upon Alistair. And all of the memories Arthur had been trying so hard to repress came flooding back. All of the ups and the downs, things he thought he had forgotten long ago. They all washed over the Englishman, and he imagined he could feel his brain start to melt just a bit. It was all so overwhelming. Arthur, overcome by emotion but struggling not to show it, could only look away as he felt his face start to burn.

Arthur could feel his head swimming. Everything about the situation made him wish it was only a dream and he could wake up. He was all too aware of Alistair's eyes on him. The blonde looked around the room, avoiding one spot in particular, searching to find any kind of distraction. He cursed Alfred for not showing up. If the American were here, he thought, then at the very least Arthur could distract himself by fussing over the poor bugger.

"Not even going to look at me?"

The blonde just knew the other was smirking. He could hear it in the Scotsman's voice. But there was something else in that deep voice as well. There was the joking twinge that his voice normally carried, but it masked some type of… sadness? Or was it longing?

Arthur plucked up the courage to look him dead in the eye and, with the coldest voice he could manage, said, "What do you want?"

Suddenly, that maddening smirk that Arthur had pictured countless times appeared, more frustratingly beautiful than ever. Alistair bit his lip before continuing. "Aw, come on. Holding grudges isn't your thing, is it?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his seat. The Scotsman crossed his arms against his chest. "All right, that was a stupid question. But let me make it up to you: I'm on my best behavior tonight." He briefly looked around, then turned his blue eyes back to the Englishman. "And I see your favorite cowlick isn't here tonight." He winked at Arthur, then went on to say, "Told you he wouldn't dance with you."

Damn that smile of his. Arthur simply could not help the uncontrollable upwards tug at the edge of his lips. He forced himself to ignore the sting of being reminded about his first prom night. "You haven't changed, have you?"

Alistair pretended to think about it. "Probably not. Why don't you come with me and see?"

"I hate that stupid grin of yours." It was obvious that neither of them believed that."

"I know."

There was a long pause before the redhead continued. "I want you to dance with me."

Arthur wasn't sure how he felt. How he was supposed to feel. There were too many thoughts racing through his mind, too many emotions stirring. It made him dizzy, and his heart was pounding so hard it took his breath away. He blinked a couple of times and stared down at the hand Alistair was holding out to him. But he didn't take it.

Clearly uncomfortable, the Scotsman cleared his throat. "You gonna take me up on that offer?" His impatience showed in the tone of voice he used.

Arthur tentatively took his hand and stuck out his tongue before replying. "I thought you were on your best behavior tonight."

"Even that can only last so long," the Scotsman winked.

"You're a bastard."

"So I am."

They relocated to a more isolated spot in the room and began to dance slowly, Alistair looking deeply into the blonde's emerald green eyes. It made the Englishman blush like mad. But it also perturbed him. This wasn't the Alistair he knew. This was one he had dreamt of after he fell asleep at night.

"What the hell's wrong with you? You're acting stranger than Kiku after he's had one too many."

"I already told you. I'm not being a screw-up tonight. I want to fix things. I want to give you the chance I never got to give you at the prom."

"Oh." Arthur could only rest his cheek against the other man's chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken. He felt like he could just melt into Alistair. He wanted to stay this way for as long as he could. Forever, if that was even possible. The two of them stayed long after everyone else had left (Antonio came rushing back with a drawn-out, heartfelt apology for Lovino, which only seemed to piss the Italian off. He cursed and dragged him out by his tie – he must have spent time with a certain Norwegian).

When Francis ambled into the room, he was surprised to find two figures in the distance, moving in a slow (and to be honest, a bit clumsy) waltz. He immediately recognized them by the color of their hair— a bright red-orange mop of hair next to a lemon-yellow one.

"Ah, welcome, _mes amis_," he greeted as he bowed politely. "What are you still doing here, if I may ask?"

The two only stopped and noticed him after he cleared his throat dramatically. They appeared as though Francis had pulled them both from a kind of dream, and they were not yet ready to be woken from their reverie.

Francis laughed sheepishly before continuing. "Looks like you're both having fun, _non_?"

For the first time in a long time, a rather long time, Alistair truly smiled. His eyes were bright and his smirk looked less devilish. "Hell yes we are."

And for once, Arthur did not snap an angry remark at him. He simply laughed like a child who could not contain their joy any longer.

Francis felt his mood elevate and dampen at the same time. He was happy for them, sure, but after what happened with Matthew that evening…

He didn't want to think about the Canadian. He refused to allow another thought about that wonderful, charming, overly cute wonder of the world enter his mind. He refused. He was happy for these two, he really was. His heart wasn't breaking, his world wasn't ending. It was just another night. Another reserved hotel room. That wasn't going to be used tonight.

A figurative lightbulb went off over the Frenchman's head. He and Matthew weren't going to use the room, these two were obviously very much in love…

Alistair and Arthur would make a much better use of the room. Francis could not help a fiendish grin that played across his lips. He merely dug into his pocket, fished out his card keys, and tossed them casually to the devious redhead before walking away. Alistair caught both of them expertly and handed one to the blonde before smiling wildly.

Arthur and Alistair shared a look before the older of the two took the lead, grabbing onto the blonde's hand and beginning to gently pull him along. Arthur hesitated. "Er, wait. I need a drink first."

The Scotsman stopped and let go of him, then winked. "All right. See you up there, Artie."

Arthur wasn't sure how long he stayed in the room, alone, trapped in his thoughts with a drink in his hand. He knew he shouldn't think about it, he should just go up and shag his brains out – it wasn't like he hadn't thought about it — but imagining actually doing it somehow made him debilitatingly anxious. While Alistair immediately took Francis up on the offer, the Englishman knew he would need to be at least very tipsy before he could gather up the courage to put his previous fantasies into action.

Fed up with himself at that moment, he sighed. "You're overthinking it, old boy. Just go and do it."

Arthur took a deep breath, gathered up all of whatever nerve he had left, and made his way up to the hotel room, not stopping to fully think about what he was going to do. He didn't realize how drunk he was until he began fiddling with the room key. He must have dropped the damn thing three times. Slippery little bugger.

Arthur opened the door and froze in place, horrified. There were two figures on the bed. Two. Alistair under someone the blonde didn't recognize. He felt as though someone had wrapped a string around his heart at many different angles and begun pulling. His mouth went dry and he uttered a small sound before retreating, tears streaming down his cheeks. He cried out, not caring who would hear him, "You're such an arsehole!"

How could he? How the hell could he? How could that bastard do that to Arthur? He was the devil. He was horrible, he played with Arthur's heart before dropping it on the ground.

Not knowing what else to do, the Englishman took out his mobile and began typing in the numbers he knew oh so well.

"Hello?"

Arthur hung up. What was he doing calling Alfred? The American stood him up. Bastard._ All men are bastards_, he told himself. He decided it was best if he would just go home. He walked to his apartment and threw himself down on the couch in the middle of the living room.

Soon afterward, there was a soft knock at the door. Arthur buried his head in his pillow and groaned. "Go away!"

"Is there a hole in your heart, or am I mistaken?" Alfred greeted, singing a song that had been Arthur's favorite since he was very young. It was his own way of asking the Englishman if he was all right. Arthur rolled onto his back and glared up at him. Alfred responded with a bright smile and a command to cheer up, dude!

"No, _dude_, I will not."

"Yes you will." Alfred's tone was playful.

"Piss off," Arthur hissed. "I refuse."

Alfred opened his mouth to respond but the Englishman threw a pillow at him and it hit him in the face before falling to the ground. Bulls-eye.

"Come on, give me a chance."

Arthur snapped. He was tired of giving chances and being let down. Feeling hurt. Betrayed, even. He was tired of being treated like a goddamned doormat.

"No! Fuck you, I'm done with you and you stood me up tonight and I had to be with that piss-poor excuse for a stepbrother and the frog showed up and Alistair—"

Arthur stopped there. He could hold back the tears but his pitch was rising steadily and there was a lump in his throat that threatened to cause him to choke up. He swallowed heavily.

Alfred smiled sadly, guild evident in his deep blue eyes. "I thought you'd be okay on your own."

The Englishman warily eyed him, glowering a bit. The American maintained his melancholy grin. He sighed deeply before joining Arthur on the couch. "Matt called. He was upset because he and Francis broke up. He was crying dude, I couldn't say no."

Arthur dropped his gaze to the floor. "Oh."

He was feeling drained all of a sudden, all the pain vanishing to reveal a heavy layer of despondency. He wasn't sure how to respond.

Alfred popped in the DVD to a scary movie, using it as an excuse to hold the Englishman close. And this one time, Arthur would let him get away with it. He needed to be comforted a little. The American sat back down next to Arthur, pulling him into his arms. The Brit felt it was an awkward position, but didn't complain. Doing so would result in the loud blonde insisting he sit in his lap. Arthur pulled up the sleeves of Alfred's sweatshirt – he had an old thread-bare one he wore everyday – and traced the veins showing in his forearm. "I can see your capillary veins," he mumbled in a voice that was just a bit raw, mimicking the tune of his favorite song.

Alfred paused for a moment. "Whoa, you can?"

Arthur snorted in laughter at the man's enthusiastic question.

"Yes, Al, you can."

After the movie was over (and Alfred was brave enough to move from the couch to the chair next to it) Arthur realized that, with no distraction present at the moment, he was left alone with his own thoughts. At the mercy of his own psyche, which would cause him to relive the events of the night that preceded this moment. He suddenly felt very alone lying on the couch.

All Arthur wanted was to forget. All he wanted was to be able to keep the tears from flowing down his face. But, with the last memory of Alistair, he broke down. He felt his heart split in two and the tears from his eyes, involuntary and unwanted, while he choked back a sob.

He heard Alfred shift from the couch and saw him walk over to Arthur, looking suddenly exhausted from his earlier encounter with Matthew but eager to help. Arthur straightened and Alfred sat next to him. The Englishman rested his head on the other's shoulder as he took a shuddering breath. He felt gentle fingers brush through his hair and heard a familiar voice hum softly. The American always knew exactly how to calm Arthur down. It wasn't working as well as it normally did, but it was better than nothing.

Alfred had a nice voice. He always had a talent for singing, rarely ever needing to practice beforehand. He was a natural. And the way he smoothed into a higher or lower note, transitioning flawlessly between pitches, was simply beautiful. Arthur had always liked when he sang.

"Hey, Al?"

"Hm?"

"How come you never call me 'Artie' or anything? You do that with everyone else."

Alfred paused for a moment, which caused the Englishman to pull away and look at him. There was a sad smile on the young man's face; he knew something Arthur didn't. It was more than just the nickname. It was something bigger, a secret he had held onto for far too long.

"Because I know you don't like it."

There was something Arthur didn't recognize in the American's blue eyes.

Arthur was overcome by this, his reaction, the look in his eyes. By everything. He felt like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. It might have been all of the rum he drank earlier that night, but he was feeling vulnerable and emotional and he wanted to make things better.

He wasn't sure what made him do it – although later he blamed it on his clouded mind – but before he knew it he had pressed his lips against Alfred's and he was

He didn't even hear the door open. A harsh laugh made him turn to look over his shoulder.

"Who's the 'arsehole' now?" Alistair hissed, then turned on his heel and ran.

Dylan was frozen in place, key still in hand. He must have been the one to open the door. His voice was little more than a pained whisper. "Oh, Arthur, no."

Arthur tried to go after the Scotsman, scrambling to his feet. The room spun too quickly and he lost his balance. he was unconscious before he even hit the floor.


	4. Chapter 4 Part One

Alfred woke with a start. It was a beautiful day. Last night might have started out badly, but he and Arthur kissed and that meant they were dating, right?

He looked over at the sleeping Englishman, who tossed and turned fitfully. Alfred would bring him on a real date. He just had to get everything ready.

He had it all planned out: he would go get a nice haircut – he hadn't had one in months – rent a nice tuxedo, make reservations for the best restaurant he could afford, and he would buy Arthur some lilies. The little dude needed some; it would brighten up his dull apartment a bit. Alfred hurried out the door with a spring in his step and a goofy smile on his face.

. . . . .

Arthur grumbled when he was thrown harshly into consciousness, the sunlight burning his eyes and making him cringe. He had a splitting headache. Just how much did he drink last night? More than he ever would again in one sitting, that was for sure. He spent the morning in a haze, more asleep than awake, and had to fiddle around his own apartment for the longest time, having forgotten where his coffee was. He really only had it to cure hangovers as quickly as possible.

Halfway through taking bitter sips of the stuff – Arthur never particularly enjoyed the beverage at all – he remembered all of the events that had taken place the night before. He winced at the most humiliating parts, wanting to crawl back into bed and stay there for about ten years. He wished he hadn't gone to the stupid party, hadn't gotten tipsy, hadn't run into Alistair, gotten drunk, and walked in on those two and cursed out the Scotsman. That man was an idiot, an arsehole, a conniving shithead with no interest in anybody's feelings but his own.

Arthur kept repeating those names in his head but they weren't making him feel any better. In any case, Alistair probably thought the same of him at that point. Both of them looked as though they only wanted a quick lay. The two of them sure did know how to royally muss things up, didn't they? Two halves of a same, unstable, moronic whole.

Once finished with his coffee, Arthur pulled out his phone and stared at the screen. Sighing to himself, he nodded. He had to do this.

The Englishman typed in the number that was all too familiar. He and Alistair had exchanged numbers for one reason or another years ago while they were still in high school, but neither of them had called the other. Arthur had unintentionally memorized it by punching it in multiple times but never pushing the 'call' button.

Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves (and hoping it would somehow help his headache), Arthur pressed the green button in the shape of a telephone receiver and held the mobile up to his ear. Alistair didn't pick up. He either recognized the number or was blocking everyone out.

Arthur called again. And again. And again.

Finally, he got the Scotsman to pick up the damn phone. It must have been windy wherever he was.

"What do you want?"

"Where are you?"

"Who wants to know?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. Who else?

He heard the redhead sigh on the other line. "Yeah. I know. Will you stop calling me?"

"I need to talk to you."

"Why should I give a shit?" His voice was bitter.

"I'll only keep calling until you agree to it, I swear I will."

There was a sigh followed by a long pause.

"I'm out by the soccer field. Y'know, where we'd play ball after school? Or at least I would, you would always sit at home and read books."

"Why are you over near the highschool, pedophile?"

Alistair was not in the mood to joke. "I'm not into the kiddies, you idiot. Besides, it's the weekend. No kids are at school. It just… helps me to clear my head sometimes. I used to come here a lot after practice."

"Wait there." Arthur grabbed a hoodie and hurried downtown.

. . . . .

Once he found the Scotsman the blonde stopped, hands in pockets, and spoke tentatively. He was nervous about where the conversation might end, given the other's volatile temper and his own lack of patience.

"How's things?"

Alistair only responded by turning slightly to face him and staring hard, a controlled rage showing through his eyes. Arthur could feel himself getting defensive. The redhead was the one caught in a compromising position, right? Why should he be so pissy? He was the one who wanted a shag, not Arthur.

Well, to be fair, they both had ended up in pretty compromising positions.

The Englishman took a deep breath and banished all other thoughts from his mind. He sat on the grass and when he couldn't find the words he wanted to say, he settled for a rather simple statement.

"I'm confused."

Alistair joined him on the grass. "So am I."

"And angry."

"You're always angry."

"No, seriously."

"Well then, we're on the same page. Hallelujah."

"Don't get snippy with me, you git."

The other remained quiet, which surprised him.

"So if you were trying to…" Arthur swallowed before continuing. "with me, then why…?"

The redhead turned to look at him with intensity in his bright eyes. For a moment, it almost seemed as though he was going to grab Arthur. "I was looking for you. I was waiting all night, Artie. I was ready, and you should have been, too."

The Englishman quickly felt his irritation escalate into something he had trouble controlling. "So I worry my arse off thinking about it, and you're off finding somebody to replace me."

"You missed your chance fucking overthinking everything."

"Well you don't bloody think at all!" His voice was rising dangerously. He paused, realizing how loud he was becoming. He lowered his voice before speaking again.

"You just don't think about how anyone else feels, do you?"

"That's where you're wrong, Arthur."

The blonde paused a moment, almost shocked. That was the first time he had ever heard Alistair refer to him using his actual name. Soon, he recovered his composure. "Oh? How am I wrong, then?"

"I practically had to beat girls off me with a stick in high school. I held off on dating because I couldn't tell if you wanted me or not."

"Okay, I'm sure they did. Tell me, did Elizaveta just _beg_ you to dance with her?"

"She almost did, yeah."

"That's horse crap and you know it."

"You wish it was. She wanted to make Gilbert jealous and she went for me because he and I were close. And it worked. And she was _happy_."

Arthur felt his throat tighten. "You were supposed to be with me."

"You were gone. You just _disappeared_. I couldn't _find_ you. You wandered off and I couldn't find you, and then you got all pissy because I wouldn't wallow in self-pity like you and Dylan do all of the damn time."

"Don't drag Dylan into this. He has nothing to do with it."

"No, he had a huge crush on that Canadian kid. Still does. Never would lift a finger to do anything about it. You're the same way, expecting everyone else to do the work for you, princess."

"Because we're _considerate_—"

Alistair's eyes narrowed and there was a deadly edge to his voice. "That's bullshit. He is, but you're not. You just trick yourself into thinking you are as an excuse to sit and do nothing."

"It's better than just doing whatever the fuck you want and screwing with other people's feelings!" Arthur sensed himself giving way to his emotions and made a concerted effort to calm himself down. Alistair appeared to be doing the same thing.

"You keep vanishing. Running away. If only you'd stand your ground, maybe things'd change."

The blonde sighed deeply. He wanted to make this work. More than anything he'd ever wanted before. The desire to fix their relationship clawed at his heart, filling him with an exhausted need. He pinched the bridge of his nose before talking. "I waited for you. For _four years_. You left. I didn't realize you would come back. I was thrown. I didn't know what to do when I saw you last night."

Casually, Alistair replied as if it were the simplest solution in the world. "You shouldn't have waited."

"I wouldn't have waited if there hadn't been so many mixed signals confusing the slime out of me."

"I could have handled it better, I know. But I was a kid. I didn't know what to do. I tried talking to Da about my feelings, but he only looked disgusted. Matthias and the others weren't much help, either. On top of that, I was failing nearly everything by thinking about you and only you in every class. Highschool was shit."

The Englishman's voice softened, a light blush showing on his skin. "So you had a lot going on."

Not responding, the redhead stared into the distance. He didn't want to be having this conversation.

Arthur began to laugh at the irony of it all. How a couple of impulse decisions and miscommunications could leave you in a very unpleasant situation. The other seemed to relax at his inane giggling. "I'm so funny I can make you laugh without having to move," Alistair smirked.

"No, I'm pretty sure only your face can do that."

"You're such a comedian."

"I'm better than you."

"You wish you were."

The two looked at each other, seriously at first, but once they began making faces at each other the laughter came effortlessly, easily, readily. The weight of the world had somehow disappeared, leaving both of them a complete mess. Arthur hadn't felt so happy in such a long time. He felt like a kid again.

Alistair had fallen back into the grass in a fit of giggles. He now sat straight up, looking at the blonde with an intense look that Arthur could not read. He had a sudden urge to look somewhere else, anywhere else, but he kept looking back into those beautiful eyes. With his heart pulsing, he felt himself leaning closer. Alistair grinned and in one fluid motion leaned forward and gently put his hands on the other's face. Arthur immediately wrapped his arms around the other's neck, never having known how badly he wanted this until that very moment.


End file.
